


The art of gentleness

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, except one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories, all written for prompts involving nonsexual intimacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patching up a wound

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much all of these pairings can be read as either romantic or platonic.

Enjolras was frowning down at the page in front of him. For the last couple of hours he has been trying to compose a pamphlet but the words simply refused to come – everything he wrote fell flat or rang empty. He leant back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, but alas the spider minding its own business in the far corner didn’t prove all that inspirational either.

He bent back over the paper, trying to force the words out when a loud banging at the door broke his concentration, shattering the silence of the night. So loud in fact, Enjolras worried it would rouse the whole neighbourhood.

Surprised, concerned and somewhat irritated he darted to the door and tore it open, ready to tell off whoever was making this unholy racket. His snarl quickly melted off his face however: the offending knocker was no other than Feuilly.

The poor man was clearly worse for the wear - white as a sheet, except for the places where he was purple and blue or, most alarmingly, red. Enjolras quickly pulled him into the room, shutting and bolting the door after him.

Feuilly stumbled, legs buckling under him. Enjolras, keeping a steady grip on him led him to the sofa and gently pushed him down. Feuilly opened his mouth to stay something but Enjolras was already off to fetch water and bandages. Only when he returned and helped Feuilly out of his torn coat and shirt did he ask what happened.

‘My meeting with the printers went well’ Feuilly started ‘Girauld agreed to print out a batch of our flyers…’

‘That can wait, tell me about the meeting when you’re all patched up and had a drink. Your injuries, what happened?’

‘I was mugged. On my way back from the press…’ his voice broke and he trailed off. He took a deep breath and went on ‘There were two of them… I gave them my money but they refused to believe that was all I had. I managed to break away and… well, your flat was nearest…’

‘You did well, coming here’ Enjolras murmured, trying with all his might to keep the flaring rage out of his voice.

He methodically cleaned the wounds and bruises, pausing to critically examine a deeper gash on Feuilly’s forearm – presumably from a knife and, based on its position, acquired while defending himself.

‘I wonder if this needs stitches… mmm… Bahorel had a similar cut last month and Joly only bandaged it… Yes, I suppose bandaged will do. Do try and be careful with it though. And show it to Joly or Combeferre tomorrow.’

Feuilly nodded with a shaky smile.

Silence reigned for a while, as Enjolras cleared away his medical equipment and handed Feuilly a clean shirt.

‘Come my friend’ he whispered, lightly touching an uninjured patch of Feuilly’s arm ‘I was just about to eat something, come and join me.’

Enjolras was, of course, a dirty liar, he was planning no such thing. In fact if Feuilly didn’t turn up he would have gone on agonising over his writing till morning.

Feuilly, for his part, blushed and dipped his head.

‘I didn’t mean to invite myself over or cause any inconvenience…’

‘You didn’t.’

‘It’s just… I was frightened and unsure if they were still following me and your flat was the first safe place I could think of…’

‘Like I said, you did the right thing coming here. I’d also advise you to stay the night. You’re injured and rattled, and your flat is far away.’

Enjolras was careful to keep his voice calm and clinical, as if his offer was coming from pure logic alone. For someone so generous, who was in full support of charity when others were benefiting of it Feuilly sure abhorred being on the receiving end of it.

But tonight he was rather too shaken and tired to put up a fight.

Enjolras quietly laid out the table, pouring Feuilly a generous helping of the brandy which he kept around for guests. His friend was silent, staring ahead morosely. Finally he spoke up in a quiet, bitter voice.

‘They took everything I had. All three francs I made today. Such astounding wealth, no? Worth beating and cutting a man for… What horrible place must these men come from? I know the darkness they must live in… but these poor souls must have given up the fight against it. We have so much to do, Enjolras… I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever manage it…’

Enjolras shook his head, smiling a little despite his anger. Feuilly was truly the best of them, thinking of the hard lives others, his attackers even, must lead even in his distress. Enjolras, for his part, would have had no qualms about cutting up the bastards, ideals aside.

But this was no time dump even more negativity on poor Feuilly.

‘I do believe that the day will come when all of mankind will live in peace and prosperity and such acts will not occur anymore. It will come. Maybe not in our lifetime, but soon. It will come.’

He took Feuilly’s hand in his and smiled down at the man, willing himself to believe his own word once more.


	2. Holding hands

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Enjolras stared ahead with glassy eyes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the sound of earth hitting the coffin.

He received the letter only a couple of days ago. A few cold, formal lines, informing him of the accident.

His father, his beloved father, the only member of his family who would still talk to him, the man who taught him everything, to whom he owed everything, was gone.

He was vaguely aware that he was supposed to cry and mourn but he didn’t feel anything. He kept staring at the coffin as it was slowly being covered, watching the proceedings and himself as if from afar. It all seemed unreal, like all of it was happening to someone else and he was but a mere spectator.

A speck of warmth, crawling into his numb hand. Enjolras glanced down, startled.

Combeferre. Of course. Combeferre who so thoughtfully offered to come with him, Combeferre who has just taken his hand in his own. His touch was gentle but firm, a point of warm, grounding reality that tethered Enjolras and guided him back to himself. He clung to it desperately.

Thud.

Thud.

Combeferre brushed his thumb across the back of his hand in a tender caress. Enjolras squeezed his hand, feeling the icy stupor that has been holding him in its clutches ease up a little. Just enough to allow the tears to flow.


	3. Reading something togeter

Mme Fournier, venerable librarian, was on her last nerve. All through last week someone has been playing some sort of prank on her and – while it wasn’t all that funny to begin with – it was getting very old very quickly.

It wasn’t even anything outright harmful or offensive – just a misplaced book. A constantly, wilfully misplaced book. That somehow got misplaced during the night when the library was locked and the alarm was up.

And that was the mind bogging part, wasn’t it? That some hooligan would go through the pain of unlocking the doors, switching off the alarm, find the book (always the same, a copy of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables), place it on one of the reading tables, neatly switch the alarm back on and lock up the building. A devious mind indeed.

Well, a devious mind with way too much free time.

Obviously Mme Fournier’s first idea was to blame scatter-brained colleagues who forgot to fully tidy up, but after a couple of days when she locked up herself, and made sure that she was the last to leave she was forced to discard this theory.

Which left her only with the former, pointlessly absurd alternative.

Well, if the other wanted war, then there shall be war!

This was how one fine June evening found the valiant librarian hiding among the shelves armed with an electric torch and one of the metal bars she used to prop the windows with. She found a nice place where she had a clear view of the table the mysterious offender always left the book – but, come night, she would be hard to spot herself.

Contented with her plan and equipment she settled in for the wait. And wait she did, for hours and hours. Maybe the fact that she didn’t turn the alarm on tonight warned the prankster off? Entirely possible. But now she was here she wasn’t about to budge. She looked down on her watch, straining her eyes to make out the time. She didn’t succeed so she looked up again, frustrated…

And stared.

Well then.

Two young men were sitting at the table, huddled close together, reading a book. No, actually reading _the_ book, the same worn copy of Les Misérables that kept being misplaced.

She contemplated jumping out on them right then, but quickly decided against it. Let’s assess the situation first, let’s not be hasty!

The most prominent thing about her culprits was their odd clothing. It looked like they got lost on their way to a dress-up party, their attire fit more with the book they were reading than with the modern world. Coat, vest, cravat – they had everything a real XIX th century gentleman would need.

On a second thought though, maybe only one of them was a man? Well, sure they were both dressed like men, but the one – he, if it was indeed a he, looked more like a woman, with his smooth face, soft, fine features and long blond hair.

Ah well. Maybe he was just very young.

His companion was of a heavier build and had a rougher appearance. Well, ‘rough’ was putting it nicely. The pretty blond didn’t seem to mind in the least though. He allowed the other to rest his chin on his shoulder as they progressed with their reading. They made no sound whatsoever, except for the quiet rustling of the turning pages.

Mme Fournier, remembering her quest, drew a deep breath, meaning to march over and tell them off, when the blond boy made a sudden movement with his head, accidentally throwing off his friend. Full lips contorting into a contemptuous little pout he tapped his finger irritably on the page – presumably indicating an offending passage. His companion leant over to look at it – then sat back, his whole body shaking with soundless laughter. The blond one rolled his eyes and shook his head, obviously thinking his friend impossible.

The bigger man finally settled down and, taking the other’s hand with infinite care and gentleness, brushed a small, apologetic kiss over his knuckles.  This seemed to have done the trick: while the pretty blond didn’t outright smile his expression softened as he gazed at his companion (lover? partner?) fondly.

Lovely as this tender display was, Mme Fournier supposed it shouldn’t be happening in a locked up library, at arse-o-clock in the night and so she decided to finally step up and put an end to it.

She stood up, straightened her clothing and stepped forward…

The young men were gone.

There was no sound and no movement save for the wavering of the book’s pages in the slight draught.

She was alone.


	4. Finding the other wearing their clothes

’Jehan… you need to change.’

Prouvaire looked down at himself, blushing furiously.

‘I thought I would try something new with my appearance. You said yourself this is an important meeting, I might as well try and look respectable.’

In this case ‘respectable’ apparently meant the almost exact replica of Enjolras’ habitual clothing – simple black coat, light green vest, white shirt and simple white cravat, tied in the manner that required the least possible time and effort while still looking presentable. Even his long hair was pulled back into the definitely un-fashionable ponytail Enjolras preferred.

‘That is all very well’ said Enjolras, pinching the bridge of his nose ‘But as I explained it also holds a certain risk. I suspect there might be a mole in the group we’re about to meet.’

‘I know. You said so.’

‘Those who know us well can of course tell us apart, but to a stranger we now look nigh identical, but for our height.’

‘I know.’

Enjolras looked up abruptly, with sudden understanding. Prouvaire was smiling his small, serene smile at him. Enjolras shook his head, expression suddenly soft, and gently cupped the little poet’s shoulders.

‘I appreciate the thought, my friend, I truly do but I cannot support it.’

Jehan looked back up at him, fingers wrapping around Enjolras’ forearms.

‘The group needs you now more than ever. Things are coming to a head, I can feel it. You can too, I know it. You can’t afford to be taken in now. This little bit of confusion might give you some time to escape if things go awry.’

‘Jehan…’

‘No, please listen’ Jehan pleaded ‘I’m not the leader the police wants – I’m but a poet who accidentally wound up with the wrong company and who made some unfortunate fashion choices. That is all. You need to think of the group above all, Enjolras.’

‘Oh Jehan… ‘Enjolras sighed, squeezing the poet’s shoulders ‘Very well then. If you are certain about this. But do be careful, you understand?’

Jehan ducked his head, smiling.

‘Of course. Oh, but Enjolras? If you wish to repay me you can always post bail if I do get captured somehow…’


End file.
